


Dear Friend, When You're Ready...

by Goddess_of_the_Night



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Actually She's Just Awful, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Evil Mary, First Kiss, Happy Ending, Idiots in Love, John Watson is so Strong, John and Mary are Unhappily Married, Letters, Love Realized, M/M, Sherlock Holmes Has Feelings, Story: The Adventure of the Three Garridebs, Three Garridebs Reference, anti-Mary, but not really graphic, letter writing, mary is a bit not good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-03-29
Packaged: 2018-05-29 23:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 5,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6399340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_of_the_Night/pseuds/Goddess_of_the_Night
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After not hearing from John for months after his daughter was born, Sherlock starts receiving hand-written letters from him telling Sherlock about his day, asking him how he's been doing, asking him for help...it's the last bit that gets them both in to a bit of a bind.</p><p>"John likes to start his letters with “Dear Friend”, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to use the term in return. It feels like John has been his only true friend throughout his entire life, and John knows that already.</p><p>And if John will not allow him to sign his letters, he decides that he will end them all the same from here on out.</p><p>When you’re ready to stop being an idiot…<br/>When you’re ready to stop fighting this stupid battle of who could care less…<br/>When you’re ready to let me help you…<br/>When you’re ready to be done sneaking around…<br/>When you’re ready to speak to me properly again…<br/>When you’re ready to come home…</p><p>He says all of these and more with three simple words: “When you’re ready…” that, in the end, roughly translate to “I’m here. I’m waiting. Come home.”"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. June 1st and 2nd

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story honestly took me nearly a month to complete. I think it was just hard for me to think of John in a situation like this and all the emotions that went in to it.
> 
> There's confusion, drama, angst, murder, all finished off with a happy ending somehow. I hope you can make it to that part.
> 
> Also, regarding this happening in June, I went off the assumption that John and Mary's wedding really did happen in May (as referenced at the end of The Empty Hearse), meaning Mary was 7 months at Christmas, meaning Baby Watson was born in February, meaning June makes 4 months since the birth.

The first letter catches Sherlock off guard. Mrs. Hudson brings him a few pieces of post, one of which is a personalized envelope bearing his name in an extremely familiar scrawl: that of John Watson.

Sherlock hasn’t seen or heard from John since his daughter was born four months previous. He had assumed that John was simply busy settling in to his life as a first-time father and had no time for traipsing around England with him any longer. Sherlock has tried so hard to stay occupied so he doesn’t notice the aching hole that reminds him that John is gone.

This letter, though, is very curious. No one writes letters anymore.

He opens it quickly.

* * *

_June 1st_

_Dear Friend,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. It’s been an incredibly long time since we’ve spoken. Too long, really._

_I’m sorry._

~~_It’s_ ~~

_Mr. Hilston came in to the clinic today - the accident-prone one that you always liked to keep track of? Well, he came in complaining of ear pain, and it turns out he had a spider living in the ear canal. Nearly drove him nuts. Can’t say I blame him; can you imagine? Hearing it move around, feel it crawling deeper? Ugh, no thank you._

_Anyway, I’m not really sure why I wrote this letter. I guess I just miss you. Is that weird to say? I mean, you don’t exactly enjoy emotions in general, but it’s true. You’re still my best friend and I miss being able to tell you about my day even though you hardly ever listened to what I had to say about it._

_Please write back and let me know how you’re doing; I worry about you._

_John_

* * *

 

Sherlock’s brow furrows in confusion. Why would John write a letter instead of texting or emailing? He thought that John was staying away by his own volition, but this letter makes it sound like it’s somehow out of his control.

He picks up his phone and finds their old text conversation, opening it and typing the first words to him in a while.

**What the hell is this letter about?**

_I’m not going to talk about the letter via messages._

**Then how am I supposed to get any answers?**

_Write back._

**This is a form of writing back.**

_Not this way. Write me a response and I’ll answer your questions._

**All of them? Because I feel like there are quite a few.**

_Yes, all of them. I promise._

Sherlock lets out a breath of disgruntled air, frustrated by John’s lack of clarity and communication. This entire situation feels off somehow, and it’s quite honestly making him uneasy.

He walks over to the desk, finding a notebook to write on.

* * *

**June 2nd**

**Dear John,**

**While it was nice to finally hear from you again, I must admit that I am confused.**

**What is this about?**

**Why will you only answer my questions via letter?**

**Why didn’t you simply text or email me to check in?**

**This is starting to give me a poor feeling in the pit of my stomach, so if you could kindly clarify as quickly as possible, that would be best.**

**I** (here he hesitates at the sentimentality) **truly hope that you are all right.**

**When you’re ready to fill me in, I’ll be waiting.**

**Sherlock**

* * *

 

He addresses and stamps the envelope before walking to the corner of the street and dropping it in the postbox.

He returns to 221B and sits, impatiently waiting on the post like he’s suddenly been transported backwards in time to the early 20th century.


	2. June 3rd and 4th

By the time two days had passed, Sherlock was itching to open the response that John had sent. He noticed that, this time, the envelope was simply addressed to “Dear Friend” at 221B. Odd, indeed.

* * *

  _June 3rd_

_Dear Friend,_

_I understand your confusion, and there’s really no easy way to go about cluing you in to all that’s happened in the last few months since we talked._

_The reason I have started writing you letters instead of calling, texting, or emailing is because my wife has begun tapping my phone and reading all messages in and out. I had to quickly delete your texts yesterday as I read them in fear that she would catch on._

_This is also the reason I have not used your name on this envelope or my letters, and ask that you no longer sign yours or provide a return address. I begrudgingly admit that she is cunning and could probably figure out who I’m writing to, but I’d rather not make it easier for her than necessary._

_Ever since our daughter was born, my wife has been much more secretive and…controlling. There is definitely something going on with her, and I’ve been doing my best to figure it out and make sure that no harm comes to little Amelia._

_It crosses my mind that you never even knew her name. How many other things have transpired during this time apart that I haven’t even thought to tell you about yet?_

_In writing to you, I not only hope that you may help me figure out the web of lies that my wife has weaved, but also to be close to you again. This is a very lonely and anxiety-inducing situation she’s placed me in, and I find that the idea of reconnecting with you eases my fears._

_I assure you that I am fine physically, but I fear that emotionally is a different matter. I know that this isn’t exactly your forte, but please, for me, try not to forget to write back._

_Your Friend_

* * *

The first emotion that registers with Sherlock is a deep, aching sadness. The fact that his friend is going through such a terrible and isolating situation causes his right fingers to rest at an angle over his mouth as he fights a look of despair.

Then, just as sudden, the sadness gives way to anger. He is furious with John for staying in such a situation when he could simply leave and return to him and Baker Street at any time. Why hasn’t he?

Sentiment for his daughter? Some sense of duty towards his manipulative wife?

Then Sherlock is angry at himself for allowing John to even marry and impregnate this woman at all. It’s not the first time he’s cursed himself for allowing the situation to play out as it did, but it’s more intense now somehow.

He storms to the desk and sits down heavily, grabbing the notebook and a pen angrily.

* * *

**You idiot,**

**Why the bloody hell are you still there? What are you hoping to accomplish by continuing to stay with her instead of returning home to Baker Street?**

**We have, indeed, missed out on so much of each other’s lives these past months since Mary began secluding you from me.**

**Can’t you see? These letters will not be enough. For either of us.**

**When you’re ready to remove your head from your arse, you know where to find me.**

* * *

He throws the pen down and leans back in his chair heavily, eyes closing as he tries to even out his breathing.

After a few minutes, when the anger has finally drained from him allowing room for remorse to take over once more, he stands. He walks over to the tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought up with the post and pours himself a cup, sipping it slowly as he stands and futilely attempts to ignore the ache in his chest.

He sets the now-empty cup down, eyes landing on John’s chair. He closes his eyes, as if in pain, before turning his back on the furniture. He sits at the desk again, fingers drumming against the wood as he stares out the window, becoming lost in thought. The next time he becomes aware of his surroundings, however, he finds that his head has rotated practically 180 degrees to the right without his awareness, leading his gaze directly to John’s chair once more.

Time has passed that he has no recollection of.

With a purse of his lips and a thick swallow down a surprisingly dry throat, he turns back to the letter he wrote in anger and is surprised to realize that he can barely read the words, as messy as they are from emotion.

He calmly picks up the pen and turns the page, starting over.

* * *

  **June 4th**

**I want to call you an idiot for staying there, but I assume that you have a full awareness of the situation you find yourself in and have some unfathomable reason to stay.**

**How can I help?**

**We have, indeed, missed out on so much of each other’s lives these past months since your wife began secluding you from me. But I fear that these letters will not be enough. For either of us.**

**When you’re ready to see reason, you know where to find me.**

* * *

John likes to start his letters with “Dear Friend”, but Sherlock can’t bring himself to use the term in return. It feels like John has been his only true friend throughout his entire life, and John knows that already.

And if John will not allow him to sign his letters, he decides that he will end them all the same from here on out.

When you’re ready to stop being an idiot…  
When you’re ready to stop fighting this stupid battle of who could care less…  
When you’re ready to let me help you…  
When you’re ready to be done sneaking around…  
When you’re ready to speak to me properly again…  
When you’re ready to come home…

He says all of these and more with three simple words: “When you’re ready…” that, in the end, roughly translate to “I’m here. I’m waiting. Come home.”


	3. June 5th

_Dear Friend,_

_I appreciate the faith you have in my intellect, but I wonder how long such faith has existed. And also where the aliens have hidden my friend’s body after they overtook him._

_My reason to stay is simple: I have a daughter to think of. Were it just me, I would hardly hesitate to enlist your help in person, and probably that of your brother. My wife would hunt me relentlessly if I took Amelia and ran. I have thought about leaving her here to save myself but…I can never bring myself to follow through._

_So how can you help? I hope you can. Here is what I know to be true:_

  * _As soon as Amelia was born, my wife stopped me from seeing anyone outside of work._


  * _At work, she keeps an incredibly close eye on me._


  * _I should mention that she refused to take much leave off of work, insisting that we needed the income from us both._


  * _Even you - with your probable limited knowledge of paid parental leave - can understand the utter shite that that is._


  * _She began tapping my correspondences around this same time (she’s very good, but she has slipped up a few times: mentioning something from an email I never told her, forgetting to mark an email as unread, those sorts of things)._


  * _She will take Amelia with her for hours at a time and not tell me where she went._



_She has just become colder in general. You and I both know of her past (on a personal level, even) so her attitude isn’t all that surprising._

_I think of what she did to you and every day I second-guess the decision I have made to stay. Amelia or not, I can’t help but think that I have made an awful mistake here._

_But enough of that, most of my motivation for writing is to catch up with you. What have you been up to? Have you had any interesting cases lately? How is the DI doing these days?_

_Your Friend_


	4. June 6th

**No. I refuse to do this via letter.**

**Just…meet me somewhere. There must be a way.**

**When you’re ready…**


	5. June 7th

_Dear Friend,  
_

_There is no way. There is no place I go that she doesn’t either accompany me or keep track of me somehow. I haven’t figured out how she does it yet, which means I can’t avoid it._

_Please, just do it this way._


	6. June 8th

**I could visit you at work as a patient.**

 

**When you’re ready…**


	7. June 9th

_Dear Friend,  
_

_She is my secretary at work and would never let you through._

_Please, just forget about meeting up and tell me how you’ve been._


	8. June 10th

**Does she know what my brother’s assistant looks like?**

 

**When you’re ready…**


	9. June 11th

_Dear Friend,_

_I can’t imagine she does but…we’ve already wasted so much time on this._

_Just tell me anything about what you’ve been up to. Have you been eating? Has Mrs. Hudson done anything particularly annoying lately? What experiments have you been working on?_


	10. June 12th

The intercom interrupts his thoughts as he pretends to be getting through some paperwork.

“Mrs. Landingham is here for her 3 o’clock,” comes Mary’s voice, “It…might take awhile, so I’m going to try to pass off the next few of your appointments.”

“Alright,” John says in slight confusion, “thank you; I’ll be right out to collect her.”

The intercom clicks off and John sighs heavily as he pushes himself up from his desk, straightening the papers before closing the file he was attempting to work on. John grabs the file for Landingham off the front desk and calls out for her. What he sees when he finally looks up from the file in his hands nearly makes him gasp aloud.

Under some very convincing make-up to make her appear to have a split lip, a black eye, and a knot on her forehead is clearly the face of Anthea. She limps slightly as she makes her way towards John, not meeting his eye as though she’s afraid of him, but also embarrassed about the state of her face. He gets the feeling that she is supposed to be the victim of domestic violence and he greets her warmly by her false name.

“Come with me, Mrs. Landingham,” he says gently as he offers his left arm to her for support, “everything is fine now.”

They make their way back to his office and he helps her to sit before turning back and closing the door. When he turns back around, the entire facade has been dropped.

“Sherlock has some fucking nerve sending you in here like this,” John growls, moving towards his chair and dragging it so he can sit in front of her.

“It was Mycroft’s idea to send me here, actually, and my own to portray this act in particular. I figured your disgrace of a wife won’t question what’s taking so long if she thinks it’s a delicate situation,” Anthea answers truthfully, without any remorse regarding her words.

John grits his teeth. Truthfully, he’s happy to see her and to know that both Holmes brothers are on his case, but he’s incredibly worried that Mary will see through this ruse and…what? She’s never gotten physical with him and, really, what more could she do to limit him? But still, he worries.

“So what are you doing here?” John asks.

Anthea reaches in to her oversized purse and pulls out a file. She opens it to reveal a piece of paper on top where Sherlock had copied the list John provided him of changes he’s noticed in Mary’s behavior.

“Let’s start at the top, shall we?”

John inhales through his nose and nods resolutely. His worry is tinged with a small dose of cautious optimism.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a West Wing fan, which is where I got Anthea's alias from. I apologize for nothing.


	11. June 13th

_Dear Friend,_

_I cannot believe the absolute nerve of you sending your brother’s assistant to my place of work. So many things could have gone wrong and who knows what would have happened if my wife had figured out that, not only did we already know each other, but that she was acquainted with you…_

_All this isn’t to say that I’m not glad to have your help on the matter, but just remember that there are other people besides myself who are affected by the outcome of this. So please, just be careful, yeah?_

_Have you gotten anywhere with the information she got from me?_


	12. June 14th

**I didn’t see any risk in sending her in, undercover as she was, because if your wife has never seen her, it simply came down to getting our agent in to your office undetected. And it worked.**

**In fact, I have a theory about what might be going on but…Friend…I doubt you will like it.**

**I think you need to perform a paternity test.**

**When you’re ready…**


	13. June 15th

John sits in his chair, hardly breathing as he reads the sentence over again for what may actually be the millionth time.

A paternity test?

But something in his chest knows he’s been contemplating the same idea for awhile now.

The front door opens and he quickly hides the letter.


	14. June 16th

**Have you done as I suggested?**

 

**When you’re ready…**


	15. June 18th

**I expected to have heard from you by now.**

 

**When you’re ready…**


	16. June 20th

**Stop this hiding or whatever it is that you are doing.**

**You’re being childish.**

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Please just tell me you’re alright.**

**When you’re ready…**


	17. June 21st

The door to the street opens forcefully and feet bound up the 17 steps. Sherlock stands from his chair, heart racing as he imagines John finally, _finally_ walking back through that door after so long.

But it isn’t John that storms in in a murderous rage, it’s Mary.

Sherlock takes a step back to place some more distance between them when his calculating eyes quickly take in the scenario: Mary is furious but focused, she’s holding a gun tightly in her right hand with the safety on, and her eyes are fixed on him.

“You just _had_ to stick your nose back in where it didn’t belong,” she spits with disdain, stepping forward as he reflexively takes another back.

“Where is John?” He asks as he calculates where his own weapons are. He might be able to reach the knife on the mantle, but he has no gun since John moved out.

“He’s been taken care of,” she sneers.

Sherlock’s stomach drops and he sways on the spot at the news, unbelieving that John could really be dead. He shakes his head to clear the thought from his mind since it will only serve to distract him. He needs to take Mary down, and to do that he needs to focus.

She steps forward again, him back. It’s the slowest dance in the world.

“We were happy together without you,” she goads him, “but you couldn’t stand the fact that he could enjoy being with someone for an extended period of time that wasn’t you, could you? I imagine that from day one you were always this possessive over him, whether you realized it or not. How many relationships have you ruined for him, just to keep him close?”

She forward, he back.

“He doesn’t _want_ you, Sherlock,” she spits as though it’s an obvious fact, “if he did, he would have had you.”

Sherlock backs up against the window without realizing. He is now too far from his only true weapon, but there are objects within arms reach that he could throw if necessary. But he finds himself lacking the will to fight her any longer; he’s been doing it for so long and he’s _tired_ and he can’t think of a reason to do it anymore because John is _dead._

He falls to his knees, eyes that are filled with despair tracing the pattern on the rug beneath him. She steps yet closer.

She laughs coldly, “I knew you’d see reason.”

Sherlock hears the faint sound of the door to the street opening and closing nearly silently. Mycroft must have seen her in route via CCTV and sent Lestrade to investigate. Though Sherlock hadn’t ever observed the man to move this silently - he apparently knew exactly which parts of which stairs to avoid so as not to make a single sound - he figures that he must possess these skills to have become a detective inspector.

He stalls for time so that Lestrade can reach them before Mary can stop talking and take aim to kill him once and for all.

He raises his eyes and gives her a defiant smirk, “He came to me of his own free will when you began to try to control him,” he says, noticing the door to the flat open silently from the corner of his eye, “John may not love me the way I love him,” he says, unable to speak of him in the past tense, “but he sure as hell doesn’t love _you_.”

Fury flashes in her eyes and she finally raises the gun while removing the safety, pointing it at his head.

“This time I will not miss,” she assures him, “I made a mistake aiming for your heart last time; this time I’ll take out that massive brain you’re so proud of. There will be no Mind Palace to save you this time.”

Sherlock hears a gun cock, but it wasn’t Mary’s so it must have been Lestrade’s.

“Make one more move and I will shoot you where you stand, I swear to God,” the threat comes from behind her in a dangerously low tone that Sherlock knows so very well.

Sherlock finally looks at the other person in the room - who he had assumed to be Lestrade - only to meet the cold eyes of John. He has a gash on his right temple that appears to have finished most of its bleeding, a bruise forming near his left eye, and a split bottom lip.

Sherlock has never seen anything so dashingly attractive before in his entire life.

His heart leaps to know that John is alive after all, no matter what Mary led him to believe before.

“John,” he breathes out in relief without realizing.

The older man’s face tightens in determination, not daring to look away from this woman who has already taken so much from him. Mary has turned her head slightly towards John, but her eyes and gun have stayed steady on Sherlock.

“I didn’t expect you to have recovered so quickly,” she admits hollowly.

“I was a soldier,” is his only response to the statement, “Now put the gun down or I will shoot you.”

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” she says as though it’s preposterous, “What about Amelia?”

She’s trying to appeal to the father in him, almost as though she’s forgotten that that title was recently stripped from him.

“You’ve already passed her along to the father, so I bet she’ll be just fine,” he says sarcastically, not believing that her ex, David, would really want to be solely responsible for the little life he helped create behind John’s back.

Mary’s focus transfers from Sherlock to John, though her gun stays trained steadily on the former. Sherlock longs to jump up and steal the gun from her hand, but he knows she would shoot him before he had the chance, so he instead waits for the right moment.

“It took you a ridiculously long time to figure it out,” she goads, “hadn’t you done the math that you practically refused to touch me after _he_ came back?” She says angrily, motioning closer to Sherlock with the gun on “ _he_ ”, “How were you supposed to have gotten me pregnant when we barely had sex?”

“But we _did_ have sex,” John shoots back, unwilling to take the blame for doing the right thing by sticking around for her and Amelia.

She laughs, “Not nearly recent enough to make the math work out for you to be the father. Were you just in denial?” She asks patronizingly with a smirk.

“Honestly?” He asks calmly, “I haven’t really thought about you since you shot Sherlock, except to contemplate how to get away from you without you turning psychotic, but it appears it’s too late for that.”

And that’s just the distraction needed; in fact, if Sherlock doesn’t act now, he’s liable to be shot for the statement. He lunges for her knees, hoping to tackle her and remove the gun from her hand before she can use it, but it doesn’t quite work out that way.

When he tackles her, her finger tightens reflexively and she ends up shooting just past his spine and in to the wall below the window. She regains her senses remarkably quick during the fall and instead turns to aim the gun at John.

John does not dare fire at her while Sherlock is still so close, but Mary does not extend him the same courtesy. She doesn’t aim so much as point the gun generally in his direction before firing. The bullet grazes his right calf muscle and he screams at the sting before taking his aim at the prone figure. Before she can fire again with enough awareness to actually hurt him, John shoots her in the head (any other lethal location being too close to Sherlock at the moment for his comfort) and she falls limp.

Sherlock finally looks up Mary’s body when everything falls silent. He sees the puddle of blood forming around her head, feels the stillness of her body with his own, and he immediately gracelessly scrambles off of her. His eyes land on John, roving over his body looking for any signs of new injuries, only to settle on his leg.

“John!” He yells, closing the short distance to him, eyes never leaving the growing blood stain on the denim, “Are you alright?”

John does not look away from Mary’s face, even as Sherlock guides him to his chair so he can investigate, in fear that she will rise up and try again to shoot either of them. Sherlock grows frustrated that he can’t reach the wound past the restricting material and stands to finally grab the knife from the mantle. He uses it to carefully, despite shaking hands, cut the fabric up his leg.

“I didn’t dare try to shoot her in the heart,” John admits quietly, as though entranced by the sight on the floor, “Not sure she actually has one,” then he shakes his head and amends, “ _Had_ one.”

Sherlock doesn’t register the words past the sound of his pounding heart in his own ears. He finally finds the wound and recognizes that the bullet merely grazed the skin on the inside of the calf, so while it is bleeding freely, it’s only a shallow wound that isn’t life-threatening.

With a relieved sob, Sherlock lowers his face to John’s knee and wraps his hands around the outside of John’s legs for support, subconsciously avoiding the new wound on the inner calf.

Neither is certain how long they stay like that: John staring expressionlessly at his wife’s lifeless body while Sherlock kneels at his feet, weeping silently in to John’s knee.

Sherlock is pulled from his inner mantra of “Alive, safe, here, alive, safe, here,” by John’s right hand gently carding through his curls.

“She implied that you were dead,” Sherlock whispers without moving.

“I’m not,” he reassures him needlessly.

Sherlock’s hands tighten on John’s legs for a moment before he lifts his red eyes to examine John’s face reverently.

John’s hand moves from Sherlock’s hair to his cheek, and the younger man leans in to his touch unthinkingly.

John shifts in his seat and hisses slightly when he fully realizes the pain in his body: his right temple, his left eye, his bottom lip, and now his right calf. The noise shocks Sherlock out of whatever self-indulgent trance he was in and he rises to his feet suddenly.

“We need to call you an ambulance,” he says, looking around the room for his phone with an air of panic.

“Sherlock,” John calls to him quietly, but he doesn’t hear it as he continues his search, “Sherlock, stop!” he calls louder, and Sherlock does, “I don’t need an ambulance, just a cab to A&E.”

Sherlock looks from John to Mary, nodding once before looking back at John standing from the chair and saying, “Right.”

Sherlock grabs his phone from where he finally spotted it on the desk and moves to help John down the stairs. Sherlock stops in the entranceway to grab his coat.

“What are you doing?” John asks.

He looks at his friend like he doesn’t comprehend the question before he answers, “Going with you,” matter-of-factly.

“But the body…” John motions vaguely back up to the apartment, assuming he was going to stay with it to tell The Yard exactly what had happened.

“What about it?” He looks genuinely confused.

“I thought you’d stay to finish out the case,” John shrugs.

“There _is_ no case. If you must know, I’m going to text Lestrade in the cab to tell him to clean this mess up before we get back and offer to answer questions for him in the meantime. You are not to talk to anyone about this until you’ve been treated by a doctor,” he adds seriously.

And that’s the moment John realizes.

Over the years Sherlock welcomed him as an equal (mostly), was humble, pretended to die to protect him, stood next to him at his wedding to a woman Sherlock didn’t quite think was right, said the kindest words he’s probably ever spoken of another human being (in front of a crowd, no less!), shot a man, helped him figure out what was going on with his wife, and proclaimed his love when he didn’t think John was listening.

But it’s not until this moment, when Sherlock has chosen _him_ over a dead body, that John realizes that Sherlock loves him the way that he has always loved Sherlock.

“John?” Sherlock asks, confused by the length of complete stillness.

John blinks once with purpose, pulling himself back in to the moment, before striding those few steps that separate them to grab his face in his hands and pull Sherlock down to kiss him. Sherlock at first freezes at the shock of it, but then melts down to meet him with a desperate, broken sigh.

When John starts to pull away, Sherlock chases him and roughly rejoins their lips, and John hisses at the rough contact with his split lip. They pull apart, remembering simultaneously that John needs to get to the A&E quickly.

The look in Sherlock’s eyes is uncertain and wary, scared that if they leave right now that John will claim the kiss never happened and that he doesn’t actually want Sherlock.

John’s eyes shine with affection as he lifts one side of his mouth in a reassuring smirk, “We’ll have plenty of time to talk this out while I’m being seen to,” he tells him before leaning back in for a gentle, fleeting, affirming kiss.

Sherlock cautiously grabs John’s right hand in his left softly, as if uncertain that his touch will be welcomed, but he can’t seem to keep himself from touching the other man’s skin to reassure himself that he is alive, he is safe, he is here.

With an uncontrollable smile, despite all that has transpired this night, John moves his hand just enough to interlace their fingers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for taking the time to read it!
> 
> I would love to hear your thoughts via comment, kudos, or constructive criticism!
> 
> Follow me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/goddess-of-the-night04) for an easy way to keep up with any new stories from me or just to chat; I'd love hear from you :)


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